At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town.
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